You come around a corner, away from the noise of the opening.
There is only one exhibit. She stands in the spotlight, with her back to you: a sweep of pale hair on paler skin, a column of emerald silk that ends in a pool at her feet. She might be the model in a perfume ad; the trophy wife at a formal gathering; one of the guests at this very opening, standing on an empty pedestal in some ironic act of artistic deconstruction –
You hesitate, about to turn away. Her hand balls into a fist.
"They told me you were coming."
Courtesy of Emily Short©
At night, the city is the loneliest of places. It’s the lights…they’re but a mirage, teasing the traveler dying of thirst.
And when his legs give in, hallucinating in his death throes, he prays to ghosts of the past:
“Let me turn to stone! Have I not struggled enough? I tried… but love and live and meaning… they won’t stop draining from this mold. So pour the bronze already! And burn away this insatiable longing! Oh, please!”
